What is Blood?
by Higgy
Summary: Sometimes the best thing for others isn't the best thing for yourself. or maybe it is. WARNING: SELF HARM
1. What is Blood?

Blood is really quite an interesting object of affection. The way it looks. The way it feels. The way it smells. Even the way it tastes is different to what you would expect. How could a simple fluid be so endearing? How could it capture him so? Why did it capture him so?  
  
It's really just a red liquid. Not really any different from any other in the world. It drips, ripples, freezes, boils and falls in the exact same way as all the others.  
  
So what makes it so special?  
  
Glancing at the dagger no solutions presented themselves to Faramir. All he could see was the beauty of the crimson river blooming from his wrist. It truly was a stunning sight.  
  
To be able to watch as your life simply dripped away from you, being given such an honour as to see the very life of yourself filter away from unwanted flesh.  
  
That's all he had ever been, to anyone, unwanted. His father hadn't wanted him; Gondor didn't want a worthless Steward now that the King had returned, even worse, the King didn't want him either. What good was a Steward? The only real person that had given him a place in this world was Boromir, and now he was gone. There was truly no place for him.  
  
For once in his miserable life he was doing the right thing. Not getting in the way of somebody else, not stealing the glory, out of the way and making it permanent. He could feel the tears in his eyes but refused to let them fall, there was no reason to cry. This was an honour.  
  
Seeing the scarlet river well up on his milky white skin, before becoming a drop on the surface only to plummet from it's resting place and collide with the smooth marble of the palace floor. At the start there was barely even a mark, now it had become a pool of crimson. One solitary tear made it's own path down his cheek, an overwhelming sense of stupidity washed over the man. He couldn't even bleed properly. As a ranger he had been taught to cover his tracks, make himself unseen, never to leave evidence of his presence, he had even failed in that.  
  
Suddenly feeling light-headed, he sat on the floor, still holding his arm over the pool. A smile played across his lips as his vision became blurry, and not because of the tears. He was dying. The smile grew into a grin and the grin split as a chuckle escaped his pale lips. He had finally worked out what was so fascinating about his blood.  
  
When it was inside him it was merely a life juice used to keep his body alive, but when it was not inside, when it was free. When he let it free. That was when things changed. All through his life this is what other people had had over him. But now he was almost passing out and it felt right. For once, he was in control.  
  
That's all blood really is. Power. 


	2. This Is Blood

Power. That's what he had. That's what he had been born to have; yet it was the thing he wanted least in the world.  
  
Why did people need power? It was nothing more than the right to command others. Order people around. All those beneath you craved it, all those above you had too much. So why did he want to give it all away?  
  
These thoughts racked through Aragon's brain as he paced swiftly up and down the hallway. All he wanted was to get away from it all escape having to tell his people how to live their life. He sighed to himself and ignored the guards who bowed low in his presence.  
  
'Why do they insist in doing that?' he asked himself, despite the fact that he knew the answer. Power. He had it; they respected it and thought they had to prove their acknowledgement of his status.  
  
He barely noticed that he had reached the door that he had been searching for. Smiling to himself, he reached out and turned the handle, hoping that council with his steward would help work out the anger in his mind. Faramir always had a soothing affect on him.  
  
He didn't know what it was about the man that could calm him so easily. They both had the same amount of work to do to help repair the white city, but that wasn't it. Aragorn himself wasn't quite sure what it was. Maybe they just had a lot in common.  
  
Pushing the door handle open he expected to see Faramir hard at work at his desk, or perhaps standing on the balcony of the steward's quarters and gazing over the Pelennor fields. He had not expected this.  
  
Lying on the floor, one arm outstretched in a pool of blood was his steward. A smile was on his face and his eyes were closed as in a deep sleep. Time seemed to stop as the king gazed upon the scene. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breath. Breathe.  
  
"Breathe." He whispered, and knelt beside Faramir. Lowering himself to his side he watched the steward's torso praying to the Valar that he was breathing. "Breath." He said louder, hoping to get a reaction. "Breathe! Faramir! Breathe!" Shaking the younger man violently he shouted the words over and over again. He was hardly able to breathe himself for fear. He was overjoyed when his Steward began coughing.  
  
They were deep gasping breaths that wracked his whole body, but he was breathing. Holding the man in his arms, Aragon supported him as he began retching. Trying to cough up the contents of his empty stomach, Faramir shook violently as the foul taste of bile filled his mouth.  
  
Gently rolling him onto his side, Aragorn held the man and rubbed his back in comforting circles while whispering soothing words into his ear. Faramir shook again and began shivering. 'The cold was getting to him, and it would be no good to keep him here,' thought Aragorn.  
  
Making sure his arms were beneath the steward, he stood up slowly, trying out the weight. He was surprised to find that without all the armour and formal robes, Faramir was in fact a very light man. His body was thin and he looked like he had not been eating well. Making his way towards the door, the older man continued whispering to his steward, trying to keep him conscious.  
  
However, it was in vain. He could feel Faramir becoming weaker and weaker in his arms. The man was shaking less and was relaxing again, which was not a good sign.  
  
"Please Faramir." The king whispered with tears in his eyes. "Please stay with me." Faramir couldn't hear him. He had slipped back into the world of darkness. "No." Aragorn whispered into the growing darkness around him. Laying Faramir on the bed he had reached in the houses of healing, he wiped the still red arm with a cloth. "Don't leave me. I...I can't cope."  
  
Not without his steward. Not without his friend.  
  
Now, all was all he was left with was the thing he had come to despise the most.  
  
Power. 


End file.
